Chapter XXXII
XXXII
DAISY
Christmas passed as if it had never been at all, and Callan had only deteriorated further.
His night terrors had shifted, becoming more violent and erratic.
They would wake him from a deep sleep, and he’d scream, his fingernails tearing into the fragile skin of his burn scars until they bled, staining his bedsheets red night after night.
Other nights, they’d find him curled up in the hallway, shivering, his eyes wide and vacant, a knife clutched in his hands.
He’d lost all sense of reality, and as insomnia began to take hold of them, too, they followed suit.
In desperation, Daisy had gone to the army, seeking help, who’d assured her it was normal and part of the process, which had no defined timeline.
Then, they mentioned therapy, throwing around the idea of a psychologist, but to Daisy, it felt laughable—how could anyone help when he didn’t have the ability to talk?
And then there were the other episodes, the ones she’d been too afraid to speak of for fear they’d take him away to an asylum.
The first time, they were out on an evening walk when a car backfired. She wasn’t sure if it was the noise or if it triggered something darker, buried deep, but Callan froze and began to cry.
“Callan?”
Daisy bent down to meet his gaze, and he turned away from her, closing his eyes.
“Callan, what is it?”
Then she saw it: the dark stain spreading across his pants, urine pooling on the footrests.
Everyone had warned her about PTSD, labelling it an invisible war, one science had barely begun to understand. But to Daisy, it wasn’t just an invisible war. Callan’s world had shifted to a private hell, one where he didn’t just remember war—he lived it, constantly.
He would scream without warning, shielding his face and arms from threats that weren’t there, and then, as if the grief boiled over, it would twist into rage where he would hurt himself, desperate to erase the internal pain any way he could. It wasn’t long until the defecation soon followed.
The first time was in the middle of dinner, when a short clip of a bombing in Baghdad played on the news. She’d tried to reach for the remote, but it was too late. Callan’s eyes landed on the screen, and he sat rigid for a second before he broke out into a loud guttural howl.
“Get her out of here,” she screamed at his mother. “Please.”
It was hard for her as a mother to protect Ida, and at times, it was unavoidable. But as she watched her startled face, she realised the increased frequencies of his episodes were taking a toll.
She rushed to him, the smell hitting her before she could fully comprehend what had happened.
“It’s okay,” she told him, bringing her hand to her mouth. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”
Later that night, after she bathed and settled him into bed, she found herself hunched over the laundry sink staring at his soiled clothes.
It had to be a one-off, she told herself, reaching for the scrubbing brush. He had a moment, and it’s over now.
It wasn’t over. A week later, it happened again.
The next day, Daisy went to speak with one of his doctors and found herself backed in a corner and humiliated.
Where she expected empathy and kindness, she was greeted by a woman who’d told her bowel dysmotility was a normal stress response, and it might be time to consider putting him in adult nappies.
“I’m not doing that!” Daisy said, standing from her chair. “He’s had everything taken away from him; I’m not going to take away his dignity, too. There has to be something you can do.”
She waited, expecting the woman to reconsider her suggestion, only she didn’t. “Do you really think letting him soil himself is giving him dignity, Mrs Thomas? If he was my husband—”
“But he’s not, is he?” Daisy shot back, tears running down her cheeks. “He’s my husband!”
Then, without waiting for another apathetic response, Daisy left, and the support she desperately sought for him never came.
Weeks rolled into months, and by the time summer was fast approaching, the soiling had become a daily occurrence. Daisy was isolated and trapped, unable to voice how she felt without judgement when he popped into her thoughts once again—Logan.
She’s not sure why she did it or even if he’d reply, but line by line, she spilled it all.
She told him how Callan was falling apart, how she was falling apart, and didn’t know what to do.
Then she admitted something so dark it made her sick: that she’d started having daydreams about letting him end it all and didn’t know what was worse—those thoughts, or the moments where she’d have to look him in the eyes and tell him it would get better.
Logan, of all people, knew what a lie that was.
He didn’t reply straight away, and after two days passed with Daisy fearing she’d made a mistake and a social worker or the police would soon be knocking on her door, a single message arrived.
It made her breath catch, and she stared at the response, unsure of what to reply.
“Can I see you?” Logan had asked.
Seeing him in a public setting was one thing; having him come into the intimate corners of her life was something else entirely. No matter how kind his intentions, his offer had the makings of a disaster written all over it.
And despite everything—despite her pride, her fear, and better judgement—she said yes.